


Whorror

by Astralnature, SomePopcornFaerie99



Category: Original Work
Genre: F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, Multi, Other, Whorror
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-18
Updated: 2020-08-04
Packaged: 2020-09-07 02:36:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 1,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20302054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Astralnature/pseuds/Astralnature, https://archiveofourown.org/users/SomePopcornFaerie99/pseuds/SomePopcornFaerie99
Summary: Is it smut? Is it horror? We won't know until we read it. But it's a good thing that we are all sluts for anything that is socially awkward to explain and will make our hearts race.Labels for Smut, Horror, or Whorror (both) will be found with the chapter titles.





	1. Bliss - [Whorror] - [Astralnature]

As she pulled against her restraints, the long member continued to slide against her tongue and continue down her throat. Having trained to not gag, she only groaned between breaths as she writhed against the touches that she felt. They squeezed her breasts, tugged on her nipples, stroked her soaked cunt, and even probed at her asshole. All of these sensations kept driving her wild and she could barely focus on just remembering to breath.  
She wasn't new to these sensations and with the fervent attention that they constantly gave her, she was almost surprised at how much her body still reacted. Writhing beneath all of the attention, her moans increased in volume as she felt them become needier and needier.  
As they pressed their way, deep into her orifices, she felt herself pushed over the edge. She screamed as the warm, sticky liquids that flowed out of her gathered beneath her with the rest of the fluids.  
They pulled away as she laid gasping, strings of fluid still connected them to her as they watched her struggle to collect herself. Their murmurs and noises only background noise to the thrumming of her heart beat within her ears.  
When she became aware of her surroundings again, they moved back in. She barely made a noise as they fell on her once more, the hooks of their limbs sinking once more into her flesh as they pumped the aphrodisiac once again into her system. Before she lost focus, she wondered how much longer her body could last, if she even had enough left to be called a body.  
As they decided to sink the hooks this time into her tongue as well, she wondered when it was she lost her jaw, but instantly put it out of her mind as the ecstasy of her tongue being ripped from her throat caused her to close her eyes in bliss once again.


	2. You have exited the chat room - [Horror] - [Astralnature]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I had a dream. I was on mars in an abandoned research station. I saw something on the ceiling.
> 
> The Lone Archivist may or may not become a thing. We shall see.

[You have entered the Lone Archivist chat room]

-Is anyone here?  
~Just me.  
-Are you the Lone Archivist?  
~Yes.  
-Someone told me you might be able to answer my questions.  
~Probably not. What did you see?  
-I'm not sure. I only got a glimpse of it on the ceiling before the lens broke.  
~Could be a few things. Describe it to me. Slowly. One sentence at a time.  
-It looked like a cloaked figure.   
~Stop.  
-Its face was like some blank, messed up baby doll.  
~STOP!!  
-Okay. Geez. What are they then?  
~Don't ask. Don't look at them or even think about them.  
-But you're supposed to be able to answer my questions. Isn't that what this chat room is for? Explaining the inexplicable?   
~Look, you have two choices: it was just a shadow and move on or maybe sate your curiosity.  
-Is that a threat?  
~Not from me.  
-But I didn't just imagine it.  
~There's a document. From what I understand, no one has been able to finish it yet. Finish reading or writing it.   
-Where do I find it?  
~It won't answer your questions.  
-Where do I find it?

Pictures-trypophobia.doc

-What the fuck is this?  
~The most repulsive title I could think of that overwhelms my mind with images I can't get rid of. I won't ever open that file or think about what's in it.

[Download of Pictures-trypophobia.doc was successful]

~Goodbye.

[You have exited the chat room]


	3. Dark of the Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One of a couple ideas bouncing around my head. Maybe I'll write the others soon.

Some people say that I am paranoid. I say that I am either hunted or haunted, and I don't know which is worse. 

Late at night, I toss and I turn while trying to ignore the noises in my apartment. The neighbor three floors up sneezes and I can hear it clearly. How can his sneezing be so loud? Every night, like clockwork, at about 2:34, this echoing expletive of a bodily function echoes through the house. And somehow, I am the only one who notices.

The lights in the street outside my window do not make me feel like my area is well lit. I can see everything, but it feels foggy. They also emit a strange hum, almost florescent in nature. But the worst is that at 2:24 every night, they shut off. There is the quiet thunk, like a switch being thrown, and then 30 minutes of darkness. Every night. Even the traffic light goes out. The apartment and other buildings also still have electricity, but the street is full of shadows. I asked my neighbor about it once. They said it was an old holdover from the war, but 80 years later, that should have been fixed.

But that's not all. Every morning, I find that something in my apartment has been moved. The door is still locked and the chain is still in place, but my shoes have swapped places. Or my wallet is rearranged. Once, my knives were laid across my table from largest to smallest. All of them. Even the pocket knife and my uncle's old bayonet. I've even had friends spend the night, took pictures of the rooms before bed, and in the morning, showed them how things had moved. They laughed, but after that, they no longer talked to me.

Worse, however, only happens when I am alone. At 2:45, mere minutes before the lights return to the street, every night, I lay in my bed, waiting as I stare at the door. The door that was shut and locked. The door that swung open without the handle even moving. And I stare as the darkness waits in that doorway. Waits until barely 2 minutes pass and the door slams shut again. 

But truly, the worst, and I know this sounds insane, is that in the room beyond, I can hear pleading. Whispers of begging fall upon my ears, though I can barely make out the words. Desperate pleas for freedom. Release. Mercy. Even death, as the sobs trickle through the darkness at my door, only ending in gasps just before the door closes once again.

I have heard men, women, and even children weeping from that darkness. And no light or movement from me changes that. The light never escapes past my door frame and the few times I stepped through that darkness, I was steeped as if in freezing water before waking up on the floor of my bedroom as the door slammed.

I can barely sleep. I have even tried sedatives, but I wake immediately as if from a nightmare as soon as my neighbor sneezes. No one believes me. And I cannot tell if it is a group of terrifying, clandestine people, who's motivation I have no way of knowing, or if it is demons and a gate to hell, but I don't think I can handle this much longer. 

I write this to you in the hopes that if I disappear tonight, you will believe me. I write this, begging you, that if you inherit my apartment, do not live in it. Keep it empty. Let it rot. And hope the building eventually becomes a ruin that is demolished and replaced with a parking garage.

For I know not what will happen tonight, but I have a syringe of adrenaline and a demand for answers. And as the door slowly creaks its way open, I plan to cross that threshold and find peace, one way or another.

My the gods have some mercy to spare.


	4. A Soft Sound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What can I say. Open doors scare me.

You always expect the door to creak. That's what horror movies tell us. When something dangerous enters through a door, it creaks. But that isn't true. There is barely a sound. A soft movement of air. Maybe a light brush on the carpet. But I probably made that up. Made it up as I sit here, hiding behind the opening door as it continues to slowly move open. And I feel cheated. At least my death should have been given a creaky door. Bloodshed in silence feels like I've been denied a fair end. Sure, it's scarier, but when teens retell my story, they will add a creaky door. And all I get is my slowing heartbeat and the gurgle of blood as the air makes bubbles of my final breaths.


End file.
